Tick Tock, Mr Holmes
by Jack HasSpareTime
Summary: A quiet day at 221B is interrupted by Greg Lestrade, bearing grave news. Johnlock after a while. Warnings: character deaths, shooting, and things may get a little smutty in the future.
1. Chapter 1

John just sat at his laptop, unsure of what to write. How could he describe the case? Should he mention the... he couldn't even bring himself to say it. _Oh bother. he thought to himself. Just draft it quickly. You can edit it before you publish. This case was just so different._ Certain events made him almost not want to write about it at all. The solving of the case was already on the news though, so people would expect an entry from him. He sighed. Here goes nothing.

The cursor remained blinking, mocking him.

_Deep breath, John. Think. What happened first?_

It had been fairly normal day at 221B. Sherlock sat in his chair playing the violin. I drank my coffee, listening contently.

Should've expected it wouldn't last

Someone knocked at the door four times. Only Lestrade ever did that. Of course, Sherlock merely continued on with the music, not even moved by the promise of the case. With a sigh and a sarcastic, "I guess I'll get that," I groggily walked down the stairs to the front door, coffee still in hand. I threw open the door. "What do you want, Gr-"

"He pushed past me and ran up the stairs. "Sorry, John, it's an emergency. You may not want to be here for this." The door slammed, leaving me on the steps. I put my ear to the door, but I couldn't make out any of the words.

Lestrade explained something to Sherlock bluntly. Sherlock jumped for joy, literally, from what I could hear. Then I could hear "Now calm down!" followed by more hushed tones. Sherlock remained silent.

Footsteps approached the door and I stood back. I crossed my arms, trying to look like I'd just been standing there angrily the whole time. Sherlock's face greeted me, but not his usual face when someone told him of a crime. It looked...

sad.

"John," he said calmly. "I think you'd best sit down." He gestured for me to come into the flat.

I sat in my usual chair, slightly confused and very worried. "Sherlock, what is it?"

The detective sat in his chair and touched his fingers together in front of his face, as he usually did when he thought. "Mary is dead."

It took a moment to register before I said, "No."

"She's gone, John," Lestrade put in. "Three shots. One to the head and two to the stomach."

"The baby..." I trailed off.

They tried removing it, but the bullet hit it as well. It couldn't be saved." Greg's face was one of sympathy. "I'm sorry, John."

I tried to compose myself, holding back the tears. My wife. My child. Both dead. Murdered.

And now they were our case.

I swallowed back a sob, determined to remain cold and professional in the manner Sherlock so often does. Emotions would only slow me down in this case, and I wanted her killer caught. "Right then," I said, standing up with as much pride as I could muster. "We'll go to the scene then."

"John, are you-"

"I'm fine, Sherlock!" I snapped, then regretted it a bit. He looked a bit put out, and all my friend wanted to do was help. "Sorry."

"I understand." A look of pity replaced that of hurt. As much as he hated to admit to it, I knew it truly bugged Sherlock how sick and twisted this world is. Not just that, but we both cared for- well both had cared for- Mary. It was a mystery to me as to how he had forgiven her for shooting him, considering I never truly did. I keep losing people. Him I thought I lost twice.

And then outrage replaced my grief. "IS THIS SOME SORT OF SICK JOKE?" I shouted. My fists and jaw were clenched. I needed to hit something. Greg seemed to understand that and held up a throw pillow, which promptly became the receptacle of all my frustration.

After a few jabs I sat down, still shaking a bit in anger. "I want to know who did this."

"We'll catch them, John."

"You two are the best in London," added Lestrade. "You'll probably have them figured out and brought to justice within a few days"

"Are you sure you want to work on the case though?" Sherlock's eyes were full of concern. I don't think I have ever seen him have such a full range of emotion as he did that day.

I was about to immediately reply yes, but then I thought about it like he would. Would emotions get in the way? Would the anger or grief I felt merely slow me down? Blind me from facts? Probably. But what about him? No one can stand him. He needs an assistant. If not me, then who? "I'll be fine," I assured him.

He looked at me for a while, no doubt deducing something about my complete state of not-fine-ness, before walking to the door and putting on his coat and scarf. Then Sherlock reached for the hat on the peg.

"I thought you didn't like the deerstalker," laughed Greg.

"It's to shield my face. I've got to keep a professional appearance. No doubt there will be reporters at or near the crime scene."_ I don't want them to see me cry._ seemed to be the underlying message. He didn't want to look bad in the public eye. It was so ridiculously Sherlock that I could have laughed.

If, per say, my wife and unborn child weren't dead.

And maybe if my best friend wasn't tearing up.

Ear-hat on head my friend walked out of the flat. I, in a trance-like state, followed. It's odd how he just always expects that. It's also odd how I always am right behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

The entire block was taped off for investigation. The lights of the police cars and the ambulance flashed, giving me a bit of a headache. The police wore bright yellow vests and interviewed who I assumed were witnesses. It all looked so regular.

But it wasn't.

I braced myself for the sight as I ducked under the tape and through the car blockade. Instead Philip Anderson stood right in front of me. "John," he said.

"Philip." Sherlock might use his last name, but we'd gotten on a first name basis after that day at St. Bart's.

"I'm so sorry about what happened. All of us at the Yard are. Mary was a good woman."

"She was," I agreed quietly. He appeared to have been tearing up, which made things a bit more challenging for me, considering good portion of my energy was going to stop myself from crying.

He sniffled and looked at Sherlock and nodded. "Holmes."

"Anderson." He nodded back. They regarded each other in stiffness now, since the return, in mutual respect. Then Philip stepped aside.

I saw her, lying face up on the pavement. She was wearing her favorite lilac maternity sweater, a gift from Molly that was now covered in blood, a bullet in forehead, another two in her abdomen.

"L115A3. Sniper rifle. Military," deduced Sherlock, staring at her corpse. "Ankle's twisted; she tripped as she fell. She would've been facing... that way." He knelt closer and looked more closely at the bullet holes. "The angle of entry suggests a shot from..." He stood and pointed, as if following the bullet track with his finger. "That roof." Without another thought my partner dashed into the building. Of course I followed.

He dashed up the stairs, but I took the elevator (It was 17 floors!). I beat him to the top floor, and calmly walked up the stairs to the roof. The second it closed behind me, he burst through the door, breathing hard.

We stood facing an old blank television on a modest wooden stand. The rest of the roof was entirely clear, except for a sleeping homeless man in the corner, who was rocking back and forth muttering something under his breath.

I went to him. I could barely understand the words he was whispering. "Mori-Mori-Mori-"

Loud static emitted from the tv. I whirled around. Sherlock was glaring at the telly.

The homeless man's voice crescendo-ed in volume. "Mori-Mori-MoRI-MORI-MORI-"

"Hello Sherlock," a voice cooed from the set. John would know that high-pitched crazy tone everywhere.

"MORIARTY!" yelled the homeless man.

"Did you miss me?"

"No. I did not," Sherlock replied flatly.

The homeless man resumed muttering as I walked back over by Sherlock. Facing us through the screen was none other than the devil himself: Jim Moriarty. "Come now, Sherry, you've got to admit that in your heart, you did."

"Wait- can he hear us?" I asked.

"No no, Johnny boy. I can't. You two are soooooooo predictable though. Your Mary was a bit harder to figure out. It took a while to figure out her patterns. She takes twelve different routes to work everyday, you know. I just happened to figure out the one for today." He smirked. More than anything I wanted to punch through the TV screen, drag him out by the collar, and strangle him with my bare hands. "I'm sorry she died though. Truly. Deeply. Sincerely. She was rather interesting. However, there were certain variables that had to be considered. The Game is terribly complex, and we can't have a baby distracting the most important player, can we, Sherl?"

I looked over to Sherlock, who's face was a stone wall of contained fury.

"Oh ho ho ho. You pretend to be a heartless bastard, when that's quite the opposite. You do have a heart, and now it's exposed." He turned sing-song. "And IIII'm going to burn it."

Whatever camera was on Moriarty panned out, and he began pacing across the screen. "Now here's what we're going to do Sherlock, we're going to play games. If you don't play along, or maybe I just get bored, I will kill the three people."

"The three people? What is he talking about?" asked John.

"Oh John. That day when Sherlock jumped, there were three people he defended in doing so. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. You." Moriarty laughed, a quiet chuckle that turned into a maniacal howl. "I'm going to wait a while, but Mr. Holmes, the Game is most definitely on. Chao."

The screen blinked off. Before I could stop him, he walked over and punched the TV screen. It shattered, and glass cut up his hand. He shook it and stared at it for a moment, then righted himself. "Start searching the roof. He might be clean, but no one is completely trail-less."

"Your hand!"

"I'm fine."

"You are not. I'm taking you inside for a moment. We're going to wrap it up at least and get the Yard up here."

"But Jo-"

"NOW, Sherlock." I grabbed his uninjured hand and pulled him back inside. I shot a quick text to Lestrade off of his phone.

_**Rooftop. Bring bandages. Don't bring Anderson or Sally. Sherlock doesn't need the stress.**_

He was back. I couldn't believe it. _Dear God._


End file.
